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Wayne Russell's history of Western philosophy Forget Camus, nobody wants to hear philosophy from a professional keeper. I should know. God knows, I've tried hard enough. Take my brief spell at Burnley. I'd sometimes see if I could turn the lads onto some of the major thinkers. Just to give their heads a bit of a work out. Get them to question things, see. But it was hopeless. I remember once talking to them about Foucault and the ephemeral nature of meaning. The next day, Jimmy gave me a right going over for filling their heads with "fook all." Mind you, he thought he was a right wag. "I think I've heard of Hegel, Wayne," he once quipped. "Wasn't there a song about him? I think it was by the Tamms. 'Hey girl, don't bother me’. Yep, that's the one." He could be mean, though. He never let me forget the dog's breakfast I made of that back pass by Parky. You know the one. It put us two down against Reading a few years back. Vital game, too. "Never mind Plato, Wayne," he hissed. "How about mastering play to feet? Not really your strength son, is it?" If he was in a really snotty mood, which was most of the time, he'd just come up to me and yell, "Wayne, you're a useless Kant." Something like that, anyway. It's not just sour grapes. I could see the place was going to the dogs. If there had been a bit more philosophy around, then maybe they'd have avoided this current mess. Take Chris Waddle's appointment. You could see a mile off that the euphoria was misplaced. That is, if you've got a logical mind like me. Let me take you through the argument to show you what I mean. The reasoning behind his appointment went something like this. Premise 1: 'Chris Waddle is reputed to be a footballing God.' Premise 2: 'God has all perfections.' Premise 3: 'Existence is a perfection.' Ergo: 'Chris Waddle, the all-perfect footballing God, must exist. So, quick sign him up. Don't bother about footling details like interviews, references, any competitive selection procedures whatsoever. For Christsake he's a God, give him a contract, immediately. Yes, yes, I said for eternity! Just get on with it!' Now, if any of the premises are shown to be fallacious, the argument crumbles. See if you can crack something which passed dear old Frank by and expose the flaw. In case you're wondering, it's not premise 2. Nothing wrong with 2. To say God has all perfections is saying no more than something like 'all bachelors are unmarried men'. It's just a figure of speech. The predicate, 'all perfections' merely makes explicit what is already implicit in the subject 'God'. It doesn't take us very far. It says nothing about the nature of those perfections or whether that perfect being actually exists, but it's basically sound as a statement. No, Frank's OK on that one. Do you give up? Shall Wayney show you what's what? Well, the big boo boo is in premise 3. It's fine to talk about Chrissie being a footballing God, but it is a different thing altogether to say that the notion has any reality. If we say existence is a perfection, then we're saying that something in the mind is always inferior to something in reality. This is very true when I think back how I wowed the nation on Match of the Day. That surpassed my wildest dreams. But it isn't true when I think of that nightmare at Adams Park. If only it was just a nightmare! And what about Parky's salmon pink suit? Wouldn't that have been better left as a concept than a creation? Anyway, my mate Des Cartes pointed this all out to me. And as everyone knows, you'll never beat Des Cartes. Cling onto your concepts. Cheers, Wayne. Tim QuelchMarch-April 1998 |